


Barefoot King

by faufaren



Category: NieR: Automata (Video Game)
Genre: 9s is a burnt cinnamon roll slightly charred, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Bodyguard, F/M, Fake Technology, No Androids, Revolution, Slave Trade, Slow Burn, and noncon warning for the slavery tag in general, author makes shit up about monarchy, badass 2b, botched politics, content warning for inclusion of sex slaves, cyber fantasy, king!9s, nothing explicit but plz read at own discretion, reluctant allies to friends to lovers, warrior slave!2b
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:54:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25401178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faufaren/pseuds/faufaren
Summary: Bring the nation to its knees, he says, and she does.
Relationships: 2B/9S (NieR: Automata)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 111





	1. Flight

9S is sitting at the royal dining table, pushing pieces of his dinner around on his plate as his family barely manages not to murder each other with sly words and clever verbal tactics in between insipid grievances about their own interests. 

He listens to his father drone on, something about imported cyber-mod black roses for the next court banquet happening next week. 

Next to him, his older brother moans about the weather and how it’ll hinder his daily hunting games, how the snow always freezes up the gears in his beloved mechanical steed. One seat further down, his eldest brother the crown prince calls for a maid to refill his wine goblet and proceeds to grope her beneath the table, leaning in to leer and whisper into the uncomfortable girl’s ear. 

Across the table, his mother discusses the new shipment of rare furs and techno jewelry she’s just ordered, and his older sister jumps at the opportunity to wheedle out a whole new wardrobe for the coming winter season. 

A headache is pounding away at his skull. Just out the windows lining the dining hall, 9S can make out the flurries of snow drifting down from the night sky. He thinks about the people just outside the palace walls, the people who are out of work and out of money and food. He wonders how many of them are freezing in the night while their king plans another lavish feast for his inner circle of high ranking nobles. 

Pushing around more pieces of his dinner yields him no more appetite than before, so 9S excuses himself first, saying something about retiring early for the night. His family barely pays him any attention. They are too busy with themselves, too wrapped up in their own little lives to notice the resentment steadily brewing beyond the palace walls, what the servants say behind closed doors, or how their youngest looks at them nowadays. 

9S leaves them, wishing he could dredge up at least some faint anger, and instead only feeling empty and tired and resigned at it all. 

He can’t help but remember a time in his life when he could take refuge in simple hatred. He aches for those days now.

* * *

It is the silent understanding in his sister’s gaze that grants him the strength to bring his blade down upon her throat. 

His brothers go down with surprisingly little effort. His father attempts to surround himself with guards who had long lost faith in their king, and they all part easily at the sight of 9S with his clothes coated in the visceral spray of his siblings. 

The knowing realization on his mother’s face as he drives his sword through her heart will likely haunt him for the rest of his life. 

This is for his family too. If nothing else, the coup will save the last impression of his dead family members. Historians will write them as fair and benevolent figures, their lives cut tragically short. 9S can carry the burden of being the monster prince, the murderer who has slain his entire family for the throne. And once he has the throne, he can finally get to work fixing what years under his father’s destructive reign has done to the kingdom. It is better for this to happen. 

He tells himself that even as in her final moments, his mother caresses his face with bloody fingers, stinging his skin from how cold they’ve already gotten. He clings to that hope as he watches the blood spread around his family’s limp bodies, streaming down the smooth marble stairs of the throne room in thin rivers. 

But his head is already starting to spin, his eyes stinging as the sunset spills in through the tall windows lining the hall, highlighting everything brilliant red and gold. Even the cold glow of his hardlight blade seems diminished in comparison. 

The cacophony of the riots happening outside the palace and the clamor of the people trying to get into the throne room merge seamlessly with the ringing in his ears. He’d barricaded the doors at the beginning, after he’d made sure that his entire family was present inside. It was only when the screaming began that the nobles of the royal court realized that something was wrong. 

He knows he should go out there, present the heads of the royal family to the kingdom and assert his claim of the throne with hands still wet with blood. But the scent of his family’s blood is fresh and cloying in his nostrils, and he feels like he's about to throw up. 

He does not let himself. Doesn’t show even a second of weakness or vulnerability, because there are people just outside the doors who would swallow him whole if he does. 

He has planned this perfectly, over years and countless sleepless nights, cultivating favor in carefully selected factions, gathering information and endearing himself to the public. Obstacles were broken down and certain figures who stood in his path discreetly done away with. All calculated measures and untraceable means. Blood has been spilled long ago, even if it hadn’t yet been his family’s. He will not let himself ruin everything he had worked for. 

Back straightening, head held high over rigid shoulders, he picks up his father’s head by the hair and takes the crown from it. 

The doors finally burst open, and the nobles spill into the throne room just in time to see him slide the crown onto his own head. It’s still slick with blood, and he feels something wet slip down his forehead. 

Someone gasps, he thinks, and then others try to call for guards who don’t come because 9S had already bought off their commander with a handful of chipcoins worth a small warehouse of gold. 

In the end, however, there is nothing they can do except watch as 9S climbs the stairs to the throne. He turns, takes in the view for a moment—a silent and horrified audience, blood soaking the carpet, dead bodies on the floor, the clamor of angry crowds outside the palace who have suffered for far too long. They riot in his name and he can hear them chanting it. _King 9S King 9S King 9S._

He sits, and does it with a flourish by sweeping his bloodstained cape over the armrest. Props his chin on his knuckles and ignores how it smears more gore on his face, crossing his legs with all the arrogance he can muster. 

“Kneel,” he says, eyes half lidded and nearly glowing red in the setting sun’s light, and they do.

* * *

It takes a month for him to admit to himself how difficult it is to work alone. 

Oh, he has his retainers, his advisors, his court. He delegates and plans and assigns tasks to the people he can trust in precisely measured out portions. He’s busy with implementing new institutions and revising old laws, securing the market and reestablishing relations with foreign nations. 

Still the ache for a real ally, a true accomplice, doesn’t recede. 

He has ensured the loyalty of the soldiers with material gain, the palace servants with kindness and a stable job contract. He can trust in the personal greed and self-agendas of his staff to know that they will obey him as long as he is the victor in all matters. The noble families stay compliant with a sort of begrudging silence because of their desire to survive this usurping, well aware of all the people that have already disappeared from their ranks over the past years. 

He trusts in the conditions to the obedience of the people around him, but not a single one of them is loyal in a way that truly matters. 

He remembers a time when it was different, when he had at least one person to stay loyal at his side. 21O had served as his nanny until she’d been beaten to death by the king on 9S’ eighth birthday. His father was not a man prone to violence, but he had an obsession with control. He also liked to drink. When 21O had come between eight-year-old 9S and his father, shielding her prince with her own body, his father had swung the whip anyway, and hadn’t stopped until she was cold and silent. 

It was, inevitably, one of the biggest factors that had shaped his views on his family. He’d like to think that his father was just drunk and angry and so killed his nanny in inebriated madness, but 9S knows how calculating and controlling his father had always been, and the explanation doesn’t fit the profile. 

9S still doesn’t understand why his father had done it, but he’ll never forget the way the guards had dragged 21O’s broken body out of the room. 

The maids and butlers of the palace are his allies, 9S knows, because he has won them over through years of kindness and affection and general human decency. The many citizens of the kingdom’s common class are solidly on his side, because he has promised them a better future, a better kingdom for their children to grow up in. But they cannot protect him. 

9S seems plagued by constant accidents and misfortunes. Stray bullets and emissions from untested energy blasters almost hit him when he passes by the training yard. Decorative light fixtures, large paintings, or vases almost fall on his head. An enormous statue of the previous King, currently in the process of being dismantled, nearly crushes him. His saddle fails him in the middle of a ride, and he’s nearly trampled by his automated steed when he falls to the ground. 

On one memorable occasion, he wakes up suddenly in the middle of the night to the point of a knife under his throat. Luckily, his sword is never out of reach, even in his sleep. His blade sinks to its hilt in the chest cavity of the assassin even as he blinks the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes. 

At breakfast, he has a retainer he does not particularly care for taste his food, and watches dispassionately as the man falls to the floor frothing at the mouth. 

When he attends court in the morning and sees how pale in the face most of the nobles are, how they cannot seem to look at him, it merely confirms what he already knows. 

He doesn’t really blame them for it. He’s expected since the beginning that some of them will try to kill him. They want to keep their comfortable lives, secure in their luxury and overwhelming wealth. The things 9S is trying to do to shorten the power and financial gap between classes is a threat to everything the nobles have been living. The only surprising part is how long it had taken them to get on with the attempts. 

But perhaps the most unexpected part of it all is how much of an inconvenience it is to him. 

In the past month alone he has written and passed thirty-one new laws. He’s also revised or entirely abolished about fifty more. He is dodging assassination attempts while signing documents. He writes and reviews new mandates as he checks his wine for poison. His sleep is disturbed with a constant vigilance for intruders, he dresses and eats while looking over his shoulder for traitors among his staff. He feels besieged on all sides and it is inevitably taking a toll on his health. 

Eventually at the end of the month, he is forced to accept the fact that he needs a guard. 

The problem lies in that fact that guards can be bought off. He should know this better than anyone, what with how he’s done the exact thing to his father’s royal guard. Soldiers can run away out of cowardice, they can decide to protect their own lives over his in a dire situation. 

He needs someone who is ultimately loyal to him alone, who he can trust to watch his back and give their life for his sake. 

It takes a few more days and sleepless nights before he finally comes to the conclusion. It’s a difficult decision and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. But then again, nothing will ever come close to the decision he made to kill his family. 

He goes to the slave markets.


	2. Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for slave trade, sex slaves, collars

The slave industry is a product of many centuries of his family’s rule. Personally, he finds it distasteful, but can’t deny the rare times when it comes in use. He’s already guilty of murder, adding hypocrisy to his list of crimes is like dust in comparison. 

The huge trade hall was divided neatly into sections, each with a separate selling point. Common slaves are located near the entrance, the collars on their necks engraved with marks denoting general labor. Towards the back, 9S notes the unsurprisingly large market for pleasure slaves, taking up nearly half the hall. The smell of incense emanates strongly from that area, and the scent of sweet perfumes and half-drugged slaves burns his nose, settles heavily in his lungs. 

He adjusts the hood on his cloak, and sets towards the section for combat slaves. This part of the market is devoted to decommissioned military equipment, such as weapons, vehicles, technology, supplies. It makes sense to the dealers, it seems, that slave soldiers are included as part of the wares for sale. 

It is dark enough in the trade hall and his hood deep enough that he is sure he won’t be recognized by anyone, even if he does show his face to the public more than the other members of the royal family. He’s wearing the clothes he used to wear when he snuck out of the palace to mingle with the common folk, unassuming garb and rough materials that can be found anywhere. 

It doesn’t matter if people recognize him after he purchases a slave. It only matters if they discover who he is before the fact, and he’s pushed into buying one that might already have another master. 

9S weaves through the milling crowd of customers, who range in all identities and backgrounds from the enterprising heirs of noble families to rough-faced mercenaries. There are business men looking for extra manual laborers for their work. Daughters of aristocrats demurely peruse the market for a body to warm their bed. He passes by a family who looks as if they are picking out a new pet to adopt for their son rather than a slave. 

He never makes it to the military section. Before it, he has to pass by the heavily-perfumed section of the pleasure market, with its pots of incense and lines of cages full of sex slaves selected for their attractive features, their skill in bed. 9S spots something that stops him in his tracks. 

While most slaves are stored in large room-sized cages, there are small platforms on which certain slaves are lined up, displayed to attract attention to this side of the hall. These ones are likely recent additions, or ones the dealers want to sell off quickly. 

His pause has the unfortunate consequence of attracting the attention of the overseer, who is already making his way towards 9S. 

“Welcome to my humble store,” the merchant murmurs, and bows fluidly. He is a tall, lean man, all sharp angles and shrewd eyes like a snake. “We here cater to a wide selection in tastes, for all different types of discerning individuals. May I know what nature of ware you seek?” 

There’s a second in which 9S says nothing and the overseer follows the line of his gaze down to the slave at the end of the platform. 

“Ah, did she catch your eye?”

Indeed she did. 

“A beautiful lady of the night, hair like moonlight, not dissimilar to the royal family themselves––or, ahem, his blessed Majesty, now that the rest of them are gone. Lovely features, really, and particularly well-endowed. A recent addition to the selling market, if I must say, so you can be assured that she is untainted...” 

He barely pays attention to what the man has to say, if it is even worth listening to. Instead, his attention is on other things. 

The woman chained to the platform is scantily clothed in a thin slip that does nothing to hide anything, just as all the other slaves around her are dressed. But it does not distract from the powerful muscle hidden in the lines of her body, the way she stands differently from the rest. 

Where the other slaves demure and bow their heads and curve their shoulders in submission, hollow eyes and tired resignation, she holds her head high, chin tucked in, back straight, feet planted solidly on the ground. Despite the collar on her neck and the shackles around her wrists and ankles––which, 9S notes, are much thicker and heavier than the ones used on other slaves––she shows no signs of fatigue or broken dignity. 

“She’s from Yorha,” 9S says. It isn’t a question. There’s no fooling his eyes, no mistake in the vast archives of information in his mind. He knows his territories. 

“Ah––yes, she does hail from the far-off islands of Yorha. I must say, sir, you have such an astute eye for the exotic––”

“Why is she here?” 

The merchant blinks several times, now truly caught off-guard by this unusual cloaked customer. “Pardon me?”

“The women of Yorha are a sister faith of bred warriors. Why is she not a combat slave?” 

“I––well––there are already so many warrior-types in that market, this one would be wasted there, just one amongst many. We thought she’d be more suited here, where she can truly shine...” 

The merchant trails off uncomfortably, because it becomes obvious 9S isn’t listening when he starts walking towards the platform. 

Yorha, he knows, is a small cluster of islands in the north that had been conquered a long time ago, before his father’s reign, but it hadn’t ended well. The cold, almost completely frozen land is mostly bare of valuable resources, the earth too hard to mine and dirt too infertile to cultivate. It is rich in other things instead—violent wildlife that roam freely in large hordes, native sealife with a truly murderous attitude to everything foreign, forests of petrified trees home to species of insects that have evolved armor to protect themselves from the harsh climates. 

Maintaining border outposts there had cost a fortune. Establishing a colony had even less of a chance of success. For the past half century, the islands of Yorha have been kingdom property in name only. 

As he approaches, 9S can’t help noticing the way the merchant becomes increasingly nervous the closer he gets. Nothing changes in the man’s demeanor or body language, but his smile gets stiffer, his eyes dart nervously towards the woman chained to the platform. 

By now, she’s already noticed their attention on her. She shifts her feet slightly, angling her shoulders a certain way as if she is preparing for a fight. Her eyes, half-hidden behind a spill of messy silver hair, make contact with his and 9S nearly startles at the barely-restrained fury contained within them. He thinks, _oh,_ with a sort of shocked awe because now he understands why the merchant is so reluctant to get near this woman. 

He wouldn’t be surprised if she has a history of disobedience, and that’s why she is up on the platform in the first place. The dealers must be desperate to sell her off as soon as possible. 

The slave collar on her neck seems to be the only thing stopping her from shredding everyone around her to smithereens. They are a terrible piece of technology, the collars––terrible and powerful. Each one is programmed with a set of codes set to activate when the proper trigger sequence is given, or when the slave’s behavior deviates from the normal standard of complete obedience. There is a function for delivering a painful, debilitating electrical shock. A function for injecting a sedating poison. One for a kill code. 

He stops right in front of her, and she looks down impassively at him, not a muscle twitching. She’s tall, 9S notes, idly pleased. Taller than he is by a head, and perhaps double his muscle mass. 

“How did they take you?” he asks, not caring if his question sounds callous or downright intrusive. He has a feeling this one devotes her focus on other things. 

As he predicts, she blinks once at him enough to show surprise at his inquiry, before her lips slowly part to bare her teeth at him. They are white and even and sharp-looking, and he can’t tell if the show is meant to be a mock smile or a snarl. 

“Seventy-seven men to take my sword,” she answers, and there is a slight lilt to her speech, like she’s used to speaking another language. A sort of fevered look rises in her pale eyes like she is reliving the battle all over again. “Twenty to cripple my legs. And five more to muzzle my teeth.” 

“You’re strong enough to be High Centurion,” 9S tries to keep the surprise out of his voice. 

“I was Prime,” she corrects coldly, and this time 9S can’t hide his shock. Prime is the title given to the head of the Yorha Sisterhood. 

“Where are your sisters now?” 

“Sold.” The short reply is nearly snarled out in shreds. 

“Ah––” The merchant, who had been watching the exchange happen with slightly nervous confusion, opens his mouth to speak. But 9S has no interest in listening to what flimsy promotion of wares he has to offer. 

9S focuses solely on the woman before him. “I’m looking for a guard,” he tells her, and feels her focus on him turn keen and sharp as a knife. 

“Against what?” 

“Enemies.”

“Who are you fighting?” 

9S feels a wry smile tug at his lips. “I need a guard who can protect me against anything and everything that will come at me. A Yorha warrior should suit my purposes with no issue.” 

This time the expression his insolence draws from her is a grin that borders on savage, for all that her eyes remain as frigid as the frozen lands she hails from. “Not many things scare us,” she begrudgingly allows. 

The merchant wrings his hands off to the side. “I take this to mean that you desire to purchase this one, then?” he asks 9S with an unbearably simpering sort of hope. He’s edging closer, obviously wanting to close the deal as soon as possible before 9S changes his mind. 

9S looks at him like he is the dirt on his shoe. “Yes,” he draws out. “Let’s discuss business.” 

The formalities don’t take long, and they are done within the time it takes to purchase a horse. A price is settled, and the merchant visibly blanches when 9S taps his card stamped with the royal insignia to the reader. An exchange of chips is made, the merchant hands over a drive containing the data of the slave being purchased, and then 9S officially owns a person. 

He feels the gaze of the woman burning into him even as the chains around her ankles are unclasped. As soon as her legs are free, she steps off the platform and lands fluidly down in front of 9S. Her pale, dirty hair catches in the breeze caused by the movement. It exposes her face so that 9S finally gets a good look at what she looks like for a single brief moment, before she circles around him to stand behind his right shoulder. 

For a good second, 9S can only blink feebly in shock. He hopes he doesn’t look too dumbfounded. 

The merchant probably doesn’t expect to see 9S open the data drive right there to sift through the information until he finds the page that lists what equipment she’d arrived with. Sighing, the merchant invites him through clenched teeth into the warehouse to retrieve the gear. 

There’d been only one thing on the list. A giant single-edged sword, the blade as pale as snow with dark accents, that is probably as tall as 9S. It’s a rare sight, in a world where hardlight blades and energy swords are favored now with the advent of modern technology. 

He motions to the woman at his side, and she strides forth smoothly, picking up the enormous sword by the sheathe’s straps and swinging it over her shoulder as if it weighs nothing. 

Despite the marks on her collar labeling her a pleasure slave, there is no mistaking the warrior’s strength in each movement she makes, disciplined and confident and precise. 

After that, it doesn’t take long to leave the trade hall. He retrieves his steed from the holding stables, inputting his code to activate it. She seems surprised when he prompts her to get on behind him. As much as the extra weight that another person and a solid chunk of steel adds, his steed is one of the latest, most updated models on the market, equipped with advanced technology available only to select consumer audiences. It should handle their weight well enough for the short trip back to the palace. 

Her hands are warm as they settle lightly on his waist, and she leans back enough to keep a careful distance between them, holding on only by virtue of the strength in her legs. 

Their journey is silent for the most part, both of them unwilling to initiate conversation until they’ve nearly reached their destination. The palace gates loom up before them, and it seems the woman’s curiosity finally overcomes her stoic reticence. 

“We are going into the palace,” she states, not quite a question. 

9S gives nothing away. “We are.” 

“You are a noble, then.” 

“You could say that.” 

“No wonder you need a guard.” 

This one makes 9S laugh out loud. He’s finding himself enjoying the strange flow of dialogue, this series of not-quite questions. They slow down when they reach the guards stationed at the gates, and 9S can feel the sharp studying gaze of the woman digging holes into the back of his head when he lowers his hood and they are let through instantly without even a chip check. 

“Your enemies are in the palace, then. What is your business there?” The barrage of questions continue. 

“Currently, I’m in the business of cleaning up a big mess,” 9S answers vaguely. “People don’t like the changes I’m making in the process of that, and I needed a guard. That’s why you’re here.” 

They dismount, and 9S hands the reins off to a stableboy. They continue on foot, climbing the stairs to the front entrance. Seeing their approach, the guards open the doors for them, and 9S idly observes all the curious and vaguely scandalized looks the woman at his side is receiving. For all that she carries a weapon of war upon her back, the collar on her neck has the distinct engravings of the symbols for pleasure. 

As they walk down the entry hall and pass stewards and maids and footmen, a faint whisper rises up around them. It won’t even be seconds now, before everyone in the palace and perhaps a five mile radius of it knows about the two of them. 9S can just hear the rumor mill already turning: _The king has bought a pleasure slave._

“You need a shield, you mean.” The woman doesn’t seem to mind all the attention they’re getting. In fact, she shrugs it all off the way one would an ill-fitting jacket. 

“And a sword, if the situation calls for it.” 

The question that comes then is quiet but brutal: “How do you know that I won’t slit your throat in your sleep?” 

“You won’t,” he replies easily, and they’ve reached the end of the hall, “Because once all of this mess has passed, I will find every last one of your sisters and free them.” 

There’s a second of silence in which the words don’t seem to register, and then she halts to a frozen stop once they do, right as the doors to the throne room swing open. Out of the corner of his eye, 9S can see the shock on her face, hope layered thinly just beneath obvious doubt. Slowly, she turns to look at him fully. 

“Who are you?” she asks carefully, now studying him in a new light. But the question might as well already have been answered when she hears the scandaled gasps and murmurs coming from the royal court seated to the side, when she sees the way they all look at 9S even as he turns around to grin impishly at her. 

"The King,” he answers.


	3. Parliament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2B and 9S get to know each other, and then there is a court of buffoons

The first thing he learns about his new companion is that she is not someone to be trifled with, even when she is meant to do nothing but stand at his shoulder and follow him all day and night. This he learns within the next day. 

It had been nearly noon, and he’d been reviewing foreign relation policies the entire morning. 

It’s a painstaking process, because there are at least two major nations neighboring his own that are still on somewhat pleasant terms with his. Still, he needs to make sure his allies are stable, the trade routes secure, no exploits added to the exports and imports policies. Then he needs to renew or amend relationships with other nations, who all have their own cultures, social casts, outlooks on what is offensive, and different ways of appeasement. The past few years have been hard on his kingdom’s reputation. 

His new guard stands at his side, two paces away behind his right shoulder, outfitted in a standard soldier’s uniform. It’d been the best 9S could come up with on short notice, but he has plans for the future. Though it doesn’t seem to matter to the woman what she’s wearing, so as long as it isn’t the flimsy piece of fabric she’d arrived in. 

“I’ve just realized that I never asked for your name,” 9S says suddenly, back straightening in his seat at his desk where he’d been slouched over the customs of the Copied Empire for the past hour. 

Mortification rises, and he’s nearly dizzy from it. He’d forgotten to ask. A person’s name. How could he? 

When he looks up and to the side, he finds himself once again under the careful study of his new guard. Her eyes don’t seem to miss anything, sharp as the vision of a bird of prey. He shifts a little under her gaze. Somehow she manages to make it feel both unnerving and vaguely disapproving. 

“Do you ask for it now?” She finally asks, her voice impassive and finely controlled. 

The question nearly catches him off guard. “I—yes?” 9S furrows his brows in confusion. “If you’re willing to give it.” 

“Give it or tell it? My name is not something freely given away to strangers who buy me from reeking marketplaces like a racehorse.” 

9S physically jerks at that one, startled. He looks up at her, a little wide eyed, but finds nothing but an iron wall of icy non-expression. Her continued watch of him is steady, appearing entirely unaffected despite the vitriol in those words. 9S truly can’t tell if she meant to criticise him or simply state the truth. 

He wouldn’t blame her if it’d been both. 

“I won’t force you to tell me your name,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “But I need something to call you by, just for the sake of communication.” 

“People called me many things in the past, and it all seemed to work for them,” she tells him unfeelingly. “Shall I list?” 

9S grimaces and quickly declines. He has a feeling the things on that list are neither kind nor polite. Nor humanly acceptable. 

“I’d rather not use them,” he says uncomfortably. 

He endures another few seconds under that intense, silent regard before the woman takes half a step back, dipping her head into a shallow bow that doesn’t seem to hold any of the respect the gesture usually has. 

She flips a hand to her chest, palm up, and murmurs with just a touch of mockery, “This one is named 2B, master.” 

Despite knowing it to be simply an act of passive rebellion, 9S can’t explain how many turns his stomach makes at that particular moniker, how many knots his heart twists into. But very quickly the urge to be sick swells up at the base of his chest. He manages to choke out a response, “No. Never.” 

She looks up, bemused expression with a thin silver eyebrow raised. 

“You deny me my name?” 

9S shakes his head rapidly, holding up a shaky hand as if to physically stop the conversation. That there was another particularly awful train of thought he’d rather not go near. “No, no, no—I meant—“ he struggles for the words. “I just meant that you never have to call me… _that_. Never. 2B is a really nice name.” 

“My thanks,” she says flatly. “What do I use to address you then? ‘My King?’” 

He coughs awkwardly. “9S is fine. Or… given that we’re about to spend a lot of time working together, you may call me Nines? People who––were close to me used that.” 

“9S it is,” she decides almost instantly, studiously making no reaction to the odd pause in his last sentence, and then resumes her position at his side. It’s an effective end to the conversation as any other. 

If 2B has an issue with referring to the King by his first name, she doesn’t show it. Most likely, 9S doubts she even sees him the same way the general subjects of his kingdom do—as a superior, a higher being, someone who might as well exist on a separate wavelength than the rest of the world. If he’d asked a regular soldier to call him by his name, there would no doubt be a string of protests, perhaps something about duty and propriety. 

In a way, he’s grateful for it, this flagrant disregard of his position. He can’t imagine having to deal with that degree of reverence every second of the day. 

There’s a knock at the door, and it opens to reveal a pageboy holding a silver platter. He bows low. “A letter for you, your Majesty.” 

9S nods his head. Probably more petitions from the noble faction. Who even uses paper nowadays? If he keeps ignoring them, they’ll probably get agitated enough to confront him in more lethal ways. “Leave it on the desk.” 

The pageboy places the silver platter that holds the thin envelope and backs out of the room, head still lowered reverently. 9S can barely hold back his sigh. Of all the things he’d considered when he took the throne for himself, he didn’t predict how it would alter his image in the eyes of his people. He still holds their love and respect because they believe in his promise of a better kingdom, but now they treat him like a merciless god. 

“Why do they behave like that?” 2B asks after the door closes, and it seems that he isn’t alone in his thinking because 9S can hear just the faintest note of distaste in her voice. “It is like they are afraid of you.” 

“You know how I got this position,” 9S mutters, not really wanting to get into it. “And I suppose it’s just how people act towards the person who holds the most power in their territory.” 

“When I held Prime, my sisters still treated me like one of their own.” 

“That sounds better,” 9S agrees. Less lonely that way, he’ll bet. Though he can’t imagine being able to trust everyone to that extent. It probably says something terrible about his paranoia that the only way for him to deem someone trustworthy is to literally seek out and buy them from a market. 

Trying to get his mind to shift in a different direction, he reaches for the envelope left on his desk. Perhaps reading the petty grievances and demands of entitled nobles will be a sufficient distraction. 

“Hold.” 

He freezes at that single word, hand inches away from the letter. “Yes?” he asks, inwardly shocked. He hadn’t been expecting himself to respond so instantly to an order like that. It felt like natural impulse. 

2B seems to have other priorities, however, seemingly oblivious to the internal conflict happening within 9S’ brain. She steps closer, then leans in slightly, carefully inspecting the letter on the platter. 

Picking it up by the tips of her fingers, 2B gives it a single small, delicate sniff. A second later her nose scrunches up, wrinkles forming on the bridge of it beneath the eyes and 9S can’t help himself from feeling endeared by the sight. “Poison,” she states. “Oil extract of larkspur daubed on the paper. Very high quality. It can be absorbed through skin.” 

9S blinks, the information taking a moment to register in his mind. Then he yelps in panic, nearly jumping out of his seat. “Let go of it, quick!” 

With a calm that seems to 9S very misplaced in this situation, 2B opens her hand and simply lets the envelope drop back on the platter. 9S looks frantically over her, trying to decide if she’s exhibiting any adverse symptoms yet. “Are you okay? Can you wash it off? Do I need to call the doctor?” 

In the spur of the moment, he forgets himself and reaches for her hand to examine it further. She snatches it away before he can make contact, and he startles, realizing his mistake. A moment of uncomfortable silence ensues, in which 9S is torn between apologizing and being concerned for the potential poisoning, and 2B very deliberately drops her hands to her sides, out of reach. 

Before the situation can get too awkward, 2B tells him, “I have resistance to most poisons found in your kingdom.” She pauses, then begrudgingly divulges, “Yorha has deadlier.”

“A resistance? That’s not the same as immunity.” 

Her eyes narrow. “This is nothing. Barely stings. You should direct your worry on someone else who wants it,” she replies scathingly, for all that she puts little inflection into her tone. Then just as quickly, she returns to stoic professionalism and turns the focus elsewhere. “Shall I go after the messenger?” 

As much as he wants to pursue the issue, 9S decides to let it go. He has a feeling she won’t appreciate him calling a doctor on her. Privately, he makes a note to add gloves to the new uniform. “Go after him? Why?” 

A pale eyebrow raises. “To ask who gave him this letter. You do not want to know who tried to murder you?”

“Oh, that,” 9S says, and sits back down in his chair with a tired sigh. He shrugs. “If I hunted down every person who ever made an attempt on my life, my noble court would be emptied out within the week. As much as I despise those pigs, they do help me manage things across the kingdom while I focus on larger issues.” 

“So? You plan to live with these petty assassination attempts until you are finished with overhauling your entire government system?” 

“That’s pretty much the idea. I’m taking it one big problem at a time.” 9S reaches for the document reader shoved to the corner of his desk. Might as well do some paperwork now that the crisis has been averted. The letter is left on its platter to be properly disposed of later. “Historically, if you look at large scale coups that have happened in the past, the era of peace afterwards almost never lasts for long, if it even happens at all. Usually because the group that took over essentially tried to get rid of all the previous political figures. 

“Maybe it was out of fear of retaliation, or they just didn’t like those people. Whatever the case is, completely erasing an entire nation’s government officials makes for pretty big management issues. Too much unrest over too short a period of time. The general masses get uneasy and start distrusting the new people in power, who already have enough on their hands. I’m just taking a hint from that.” 

He opens up the reader and scrolls through all the unread appeals and demands for this and that, various applications submitted for review. Out of wanting to preserve his sanity, he’d leave these things for someone else, but right now he doesn’t trust anyone not to take advantage of the current chaos. It would be too much of a temptation to try to sneak a few enemies into high positions, or hide a few embezzlements between the numbers. 

The silence emanating from somewhere beside him is so loud that he glances up and sees 2B with a thoughtful furrow to her brow. That’s the most honest part of her, 9S thinks. A part of him is grateful that he can use that to get a partial read of 2B’s inner thinking, while the other part is calculating how his enemies would use that to take advantage of her, and how he can help her hide it. 

“You’re thinking hard,” he comments idly. 

2B doesn’t move, but her eyes shift to pierce into him like daggers. She says nothing. Her brows flatten back into a smooth plane, and suddenly she is the impassable iron wall 9S had first met her as. 

Someone as young as 2B is shouldn’t have a poker face as strong as the one she seems to just naturally wear as a part of her physical being, and it’s a sad testament to how hard her life must have been. 9S is glad for it, though. It would’ve been better if she never had to experience anything that made her develop such defences so early in her life, and it would’ve been better if 9S didn’t have to pick her as his guard at all. 

But the reality is that she has been dragged into the center of a very dangerous and politically unstable situation, and 9S is so very glad that he has someone at his side who can defend herself. 

“Why do you work alone?”

The question from 2B makes 9S pause for a moment, then he smiles. “I don’t,” he replies easily. “I have retainers I can delegate to, my spy network, and the people that supported my coup. It would be impossible to do everything I’ve done alone.” 

2B lets out a quiet scoff. “Those are the people you’ve bought off or blackmailed. Do you have no true allies?” 

That one strikes deep, but 9S chuckles anyway. “Well…” he turns hopeful eyes to her, only half joking as he says, “I have you?” 

“You also bought me. Literally, even.” 2B remains unimpressed. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but 9S swears that he hears a hint of humor in her voice. 

“Ah, well.” He shrugs. “I guess I really am alone after all.” 

There’s silence for a bit, 2B looking thoughtfully at him as he reads boredly through his documents. Eventually, she seems to come to a conclusion. “You are quite unlucky.” 

9S laughs softly, because what can he say to disagree with that?

* * *

It seems that a day is about all the time his court advisors need to get over their shock before they begin complaining again. 

“Your Majesty!” they cry. “She is unfit to be your guard!” they protest. 

And he pretends like he’s surprised. “Really? Why?” He blinks big eyes at his court, just to drive the point in that he is a confused young boy who doesn’t see the fault in his actions. 

“She is a slave, King Nines,” one Lord says sternly, and even though the familiarity sends his skin crawling, 9S sees they’ve fully bought the facade. They’ve unwittingly adopted the roles of teachers educating a young pupil. It nearly makes 9S giggle in delight. 

“A pleasure collar at that,” murmurs another, quieter as if the very words are too scandalous to even utter. “It would be unseemly, your Majesty.” 

“But if she is strong and can protect me, isn’t that enough to make her my guard?” he asks, just to see them squirm and try to figure out a way to tell their king that he is wrong without actually saying so. 

“Pardon me if it seems a bit callous to say, but a barbarian warrior from a conquered island has no place at your side, King Nines,” says the noble from before, not very delicate at all despite his words. 9S makes a note to see that this one is taken down a peg or two. The man is getting too comfortable with his familiarity with 9S. Perhaps he’ll ruin a couple of his gambling trips. Make him cry a little when all his assets drop in value. 

9S sneaks a glance to his right. 2B has been quiet throughout the whole discussion, standing vigilantly beside his throne like she doesn’t hear everyone talking about her as if she isn’t in the room. Back straight, uniform impeccable, giant sword in its magnetic sheath on her back, staring across the room without expression. At the last statement, though, 9S notices that the line of her shoulders have stiffened, the muscles in her forearms tensed up as if she could barely hold herself back. 

Hm. Maybe he’ll leak some information about the nobleman’s many affairs to the news outlets, let his unforgiving wife hear about it and decide what to do with her adulterous husband. 9S hears she has a reputation for being clever, if particularly spiteful. 

“Perhaps,” agrees the Lady beside the noble, quick to direct the conversation to less sensitive territory. “It should be a person of honorable background. Perhaps we can review the current ranks of knights for someone who is more suited for the position.” 

“Yes!” The other nobles jump on the suggestion like starving dogs. “Yes, perhaps we can ask the captain of the Royal Guard who he may recommend, he must have a few eligible knights already in mind. Or––” 

“Then,” 9S interrupts, head tilted in thought. He stretches the word out, like he’s thinking hard, then gets to the thing he’d been aiming for that entire evening. “I suppose she’ll just have to become a knight.” 

He smiles at the storm of sputtering this elicits in his court. Oh, this will be grand.


	4. Gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 9S survives one more attempt on his life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> went back and split chapter one into two parts for more consistent chapter lengths -.-
> 
> CW for torture function of slave collars in this universe.

“A knight,” 2B states flatly once 9S retires for the night and they’re in the privacy of his rooms. “You plan to knight me.” 

He pauses in fumbling with the straps on his blade holster, slowly looks up to see his guard with that now familiar furrow on her brow. “Is it a problem?” He asks worriedly. “I hope I didn’t… overstep.” 

“In my knowledge, your kingdom doesn't make knights out of slaves.” 

“Then you’ll be the first. At least until I have enough support to free you.” 

There’s a period of silence, as is common in most of their conversations with each other. 2B seems to be thinking about something and 9S resumes his struggle in attempting to undress himself. 

One would think he’d have the process down by now, but the many-layered garb of the King, as well as all the additional ornaments and nonsensical fastenings, are much more complex than his outfits as a third-born prince. 

He hasn’t trusted a maid to help him dress since scanning out a well-disguised surveillance microchip in the fabric in the very first week of his reign. Every morning since then has been a prolonged hassle of making himself look presentable, and he wouldn’t bother with the effort if it didn’t affect his image as a perfect ruler in the eyes of his people. He needs every possible advantage at the moment. 

“Is it important?” 

The sudden question makes 9S look over again, and he sees that 2B has made herself comfortable in the area she’d deemed her own, lounging on the chaise with her legs crossed at the knee. Her sword leans on the armrest, never out of reach. 

In the beginning, he’d tried to offer her a room of her own but she had declined, and told him that guarding him will be easier if she is close at all times. Instead, 2B had swept into his rooms and, much in the manner of a very large cat, claimed a side alcove not far from his bedroom for herself. 

He thinks back to the question, tilting his head. “Well…” He starts, “For one, it’ll give you a certain degree of immunity. As the King’s First Guard, you’re responsible for my safety and protection, so you’ll be pretty much untouchable to a lot of people. Even most of my court will have to leave you alone. You’ll have all the rights of the highest ranking of knighthood.” 

2B makes an idle noise of acknowledgement. “Even though I am still collared?” 

“I have a solution for that.” 

“Oh?” 

9S shrugs, and finally unpeels the third layer of clothing from himself, throwing the finely stitched fabric haphazardly over the back of a chair. “I was planning on doing it anyway, even if you turned down becoming a knight. So you don’t have to feel pressured.” 

“I imagine your court will not be happy,” she says, but it doesn’t sound like she’s worried about them. Rather, there’s a look of slight anticipation in her eyes. 

9S laughs, because he’d be lying if he said there isn't a whole chunk of pettiness weaved into this plan. “Oh, absolutely! They’ll have the biggest conniption over it. It’ll be great.” 

“So?” he asks her, putting as much sincerity as he can manage into it, because he won’t do it if she doesn’t agree, even if it will make things a bit more difficult for him. “Will you be my Knight?” 

A muscle in her cheek jumps, and 9S wonders if 2B is holding a smile back—one of those sharp-edged grins full of teeth and viciousness and nothing nice, that he’d glimpsed when he first met her. 

“If it will upset those clowns in your court,” she bites out, “Gladly.” 

9S grins. He can appreciate that amount of spite in anyone. “Okay,” he motions for her to come closer. “Now, I need to take a look at that collar.” 

She doesn’t move. “Why?” 

“I’m going to try to deactivate it.” 

Her eyes widen briefly, then narrow. “Impossible,” she says. “An uncollared slave is punished by death. People will call you hypocrite.” 

He shrugs it off. “They already do. And I won’t let anyone kill you.” 

“You will lose credibility if you break one of your own laws.”

9S frowns. “Wouldn’t be my law if I could do something about it,” he mutters. 

Damn fools won’t listen if he proposes to abolish the system out of the blue. Not only his court, but he’ll anger an entire industry, the great noble families, and half his kingdom’s economy will probably fall apart if he suddenly made keeping slaves illegal. Not to mention all the dire consequences on the enslaved people themselves that decision will have if he doesn’t put certain institutions and programs into place first. 

For something that’s been systematically implemented into the market through the course of many decades, he has to take it apart just as methodically. 

“Fine,” he acquiesced. “I won’t take it off. But I need to do something about the codes.” 

She looks at him dryly. “You don’t need them?” 

9S startles, something in his gut recoiling at the mere notion of it. “No,” he manages to say, and shakes his head like it will help him get rid of the slimy feeling that’s abruptly taken up residence in his brain. “No, I won’t ever use the codes. And I don’t want anyone else to use them on you, either.” 

The gross fact of it is that anyone can. Most of the torture codes are common knowledge, due to the mass-manufactured nature of the collars. It’s an easy way to prevent the use of slaves for illegal activities, when anyone can disable someone else’s slave with just a spoken set of words. 

Disgusting pieces of technology. They are the one thing 9S wishes had never come out of the era’s sudden rise of technological advancements. 

Another moment of hesitation—one born not from fear but from caution and learned suspicion. 9S understands this well, and he leaves 2B to think her decision through as he refocuses his efforts on his clothes. 

They are such unnecessarily complicated processes, his outfits. Perhaps due to the prevalent cold weather in his region, the prolonged winters, the wearing of multiple layers has come to be a historical symbol of wealth and status in the kingdom. Still, he’s certain that particular status symbol should be becoming obsolete by now, with new thermal tech being developed, clothing designed for more warmth in less layers. 

He makes a note to invest in a few companies to hurry the spread of such technology. Maybe even send out a few whispers in the noble ladies’ garden gatherings to encourage the new trend of decreasing layers. Fashion trends follow the footsteps of nobles, unfortunately. With enough push, manufacturers will soon be vying for ready-made thermal wear for the general masses. 

9S huffs out a frustrated breath as his fingers slip on the tiny fastenings behind his neck. They start at the top of a high neckline, and travel all the way down to the tight body of the waistcoat. They’re made to look invisible in the seams, but it only means that they’re all the more difficult to get a grip on. 

“The collars should not be so easily altered. How do you know you can accomplish this?” 

The question comes directly behind him, and 2B’s voice is very suddenly much closer to him than before. 9S sucks in a startled breath when he feels careful hands push his own away, and stands very, very still as 2B proceeds to undo the fastenings for him. The nape of his neck tingles from the proximity, and the sensation slides down the length of his spine right alongside the deft motions of her hands, stopping at the point where she finishes at the small of his back. 

“Th-thanks,” he stutters, the garment now limp in his arms, and can’t help but get a little red when he turns around and discovers exactly how close 2B is standing. He’s always known she’s quite tall in comparison, but at this distance 2B seems to tower over him, forcing him to crane his neck in order to meet her eyes. 9S swallows, and forces his suddenly clumsy feet to take a few steps back under the pretense of adding his waistcoat to the mountain of fabric on the chair. 

2B stays where she is, unmoving and unreadable as she always is. Still, somehow 9S gets the feeling that she hasn’t missed a single detail in the way he responded to her. 

9S looks away uneasily, not really liking how he’d reacted either. “You may know me as a political figure, but I’ve always been more comfortable as a hacker,” he admits, perhaps in an attempt to draw away from the last few seconds. “It’s one of the first skills I learned as a child, and was a major factor in the usurping. I know enough about the programs in that collar to disable the code inputs, as long as I have a direct interface with it.” 

His eldest brother had introduced basic coding to him as soon as he’d finished learning his numbers and letters. He had learned the language of computers right alongside mathematical concepts and grammar rules. By the time he hit his double digits, he’d already been infiltrating the palace’s digital framework as a casual pastime, accessing confidential archives without leaving even a blip in the system. 

2B blinks once. Slowly. “You will do this right now,” she tells him, _commands_ him. “Before I regain my senses and remember my vow to crush anyone who touches my collar.” 

A little wide eyed, 9S nods eagerly. “Okay, we’ll get it over with as fast as possible,” he promises, and goes to his desk to turn on the monitor. A little rummaging in his drawer yields him a small gray device—a wireless, non-intrusive code reader that will transfer any running programs in any electronic device it’s touching directly to his monitor. It is one of his most prized tools, especially when much of the technology nowadays doesn't have physical ports to plug into anymore. 

A shadow passes over him and he looks up to see that 2B has followed him to his work station. She’s taken a seat on the edge of the desk, one hand flat on the surface for stability, looking dubiously down at his tools of trade. 

“I need to…” He offers up the device in askance. 

2B inspects it with hooded eyes, then bends over, towards him, a hand coming up to tuck a pale lock of hair behind her ear. She tilts her head to offer more access to the collar on her neck and keeps her eyes locked on his like a challenge, and suddenly 9S’s voice fails him. 

Silently, he reaches up to press the device lightly to the collar, where its sensors activate a gentle magnetic field to keep itself in place. 2B shifts back when he turns his attention to the influx of data that’s begun to pour into the terminal window on his monitor. He mentaly rolls up his sleeves and falls into the easy calm of the honed skill he’s always been the most confident in, hands falling into place on the keys like second nature. 

“If you fail, you may kill me,” she says, though it doesn’t sound so much like a warning than it does a simple, straightforward fact. 

9S grits his teeth, fingers already flying over the keyboard, eyes reading strings of numbers and letters at light speed. “That won’t happen,” he says. 

The program is more aggressive than he’d originally thought. His counter codes are met with surprising resistance; for every line he types, the collar sends back another in rapid response. In the back of his mind, he can almost appreciate the ingenuity of the design, if it hadn’t been used for something like this. 

Then finally the collar emits a quiet beep, signalling that something has changed and it is time to test if it has been deactivated. 9S spares a glance up––taking in the sight of 2B perched regally on his desk, overseeing his work with all the stately grace of a panther––before running the test command. 

Immediately he knows he’s done something wrong, because the next sequence of code that pops up on the monitor after he presses the enter key is too long to be the brief notification of a deactivated collar. He curses, hands already scrambling to terminate the process even when he knows it’s too late. 

2B back arches, and briefly her face twists as a cut-off noise of pain escapes from behind clenched teeth. It lasts a second, then two, and an agonizing third, before it subsides. Then just as quickly, 2B recovers with frightening speed before her expression warps into all-encompassing fury. 

9S manages a short yelp before a large hand closes around his throat and any sound or word that might have been on his tongue is ruthlessly crushed into silence under that tight grip. 

“You dare,” she snarls. 

“W-wait,” he barely gasps out, dizzy more from disorientation than the lack of oxygen. He hadn’t even seen her move. In one breath, she was as stiff as a statue enduring the overwhelming pain of the shock, and in the next she had phased into existence not even inches away from him, her hand around his neck, eyes aglow with deep simmering wrath. 

And this is the sight of her now, 9S under the mercy of her hand as she growls into his face, “I am going to kill you.” 

“I–I must have missed––something.” 9S reflexably grabs 2B’s wrist when her grip alarmingly becomes tighter. It’s like grabbing a statue, one that’s made out of solid marble. He couldn’t move it even if he tried. 

It is all 9S can manage with the rapidly dwindling air left in his lungs. “Sorry, let me––let me…” 

Black spots eat up his vision and his hand that had grabbed 2B’s wrist trembles weakly before he lets it drop limply to his lap, no oxygen left to fuel his limbs. Amid the panicked half-finished thoughts of his brain screaming at him for survival, he still has the wherewithal to wonder if this is how his life will be ended, everything he planned for in the future rendered nonexistent in the face of this woman’s anger. 

And still even beneath that, the calculating tactician in him observes it all in detached icy calm, knowing that 2B cannot bring herself to kill him right now, not like this, while still knowing that she has a chance of seeing her sisters free again. It whispers, _you’ll be fine_ , and _just wait_ , because it knows that knowing the core of what a person wants places their heart right in his palms. 

A second later, it is proven correct when the fingers around his throat loosen and draw away, leaving him free to draw in big, heaving gasps of air in between weak coughs. His back instinctually bends, curling upon himself to protect vital points as he shakes in his chair and tries to recover from the near-strangulation. 

“You ask me to let you try again.” 

The words cut through the haze and make 9S look up through the messy strands of his hair, his vision slightly wavering due to the tears that had sprung to his eyes in his coughing fit. 

2B gazes down upon him with frigid eyes, iron-willed and unforgiving. “You have already failed once. Why should I give you another chance to kill me?” 

He doesn’t answer, can’t find the strength to make his tongue form coherent sentences. It doesn’t matter anyway, because she must already know. 

There is a cold part of him that is all logic and ruthless stratagem, a part of him that doesn’t care about heart or morals or the means, just as long as it gets him where he needs to be and what he wants. It’s a part of him that would’ve scared him in any other life, frightened of the knowledge that he’s capable of being such a person. That would have been the case, in a world where he didn’t have to grow up with the permanent realization that he was all alone, and he had to make his own decisions and fight for his own survival in ways that are not necessarily physical. 

In a better world, it is something he would’ve squashed at its infancy, delegating growth and development to the warmer, softer parts of himself. In this one, though, in the world that he’s received as his lot at birth, that scheming darkness is something that has allowed him to survive to this age. 

“I’m sorry. I’ll make sure the next attempt will be successful,” is all he offers her, because they both know there’s no better path than the one they have both already started walking. 

The edges of 2B’s mouth twist, her lips curling in contempt, and she makes a short noise of frustration. Slowly, silently, like a predator’s prowl, she steps around his chair to somewhere behind him. 9S can’t stop himself from flinching when, once more, he feels a strong hand curl around his neck. Her fingers splay out over the vulnerable column, index hooking just beneath his jaw, and her thumb presses into raw painful spots at his nape that he knows are the beginning of dark bruises. 

“You will try again, like this.” The murmur comes low into his ear, 2B’s voice soft and silken with brutal promise. “The moment I feel my heart falter, I will snap your neck. You will die with me.” 

9S feels a shiver run down his spine, not only from the threat but also from the way those words are spoken, so curt and matter-of-fact. He nods, or as much as he can with 2B’s hand around his throat. “Sounds fair.” 

As much as 2B wants to save her sisters, 9S knows that as soon as her death is imminent, all bets are off. If 9S can’t even keep her alive, 2B certainly isn’t going to trust him with her sisters, even on the off chance that he’d still fulfill his promise after her death. What she has told him isn’t an idle threat, and somehow 9S has no doubt that she’s wholly capable of breaking his neck one-handedly just before her heart stops beating. 

So 9S begins the process all over again, hacking into the collar and inputting the deactivation sequences with the threat of a broken neck should he make another mistake. Taking a deep breath, and feeling the ache in his abused throat, he puts it neatly aside and turns his entire focus on the task at hand. He digs and digs deeper into the program before he spies it–– _ah_ ––a backup protocol, cleverly hidden so that it’d fit right in with the rest of the main code. 

This time, he takes the extra minutes to comb through everything once, twice over. No typing errors, not a number out of place. Nothing he’d missed. 2B had already paid for his hubris once, he owed her at least that much to make sure that she won’t have to endure the same pain twice in a row. 

He checks a third time. Still nothing, no mistakes. As it should be. At twelve he had already been infiltrating data security facilities . He’s hacked into corrupt conglomerates and leaked years of history of money laundering and shady dealings over breakfast. He has slipped malware into data banks that were said to be literally impenetrable. He knows his codes just as a bird knows its winds and kindling knows its fires. 

He can’t bring himself to run the command prompt, though. 

His finger hovers over the key, but somehow he can’t manage to communicate to the suddenly unresponsive appendage that he wants to press down. _What if_ ––what if he only gets two tries? That he’s used up the first one and the second time will be a lethal dose of poison, instead of a painful shock, the next time he messes up? 

The fingers wrapped around his throat twitch in warning, and it seems that 2B has noticed his hesitation. 

“Do it.” 

9S swallows hard, all too aware of her hand on his fragile spinal cord. But for some reason, the fact that she’s told him to go through with it frees him from that unbearable tension that had frozen his limbs, and he enters the command. 

Blessed nothing. 

9S lets out a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding, feeling the sharp ache in his windpipe and not really caring about it. 

The hand disappears from his neck before he even has time to register the loss of contact, and instead it slowly comes around to lean on the desk, fingers curling over the edge. 9S turns around in his chair, a grin already forming on his face—then he stops short. 

2B looms over him with an unreadable expression, casting a shadow over him, pale eyes shuttered and guarded. It’s a stare that shouldn’t belong on people, faceted like diamonds and reflecting nothing. The stare of someone who is used to being the hunter. 

There is a voice in the background of his brain, that doesn’t sound like the tactician but rather a voice from older, ancient and forgotten ages, that remembers being hunted for sport by old gods. It is the voice of base instinct that yells at him not to be the first to look away from the larger predator, that doing so will mark him as easy prey. 

She says nothing, just looks at him for what seems like an eternity. 9S feels frozen beneath the heavy weight of that gaze, trapped in his spot with his back against his chair. 

Their faces are _so close._ He sits there in nothing but the thinnest layers of his usual clothing and suddenly it occurs to him how the whole scene must look through a third party’s perspective. 

That startling realization is what allows him to disengage from the staring contest with her, ignoring everything else, because he doesn’t want to go near that particular topic. 

“Seems like it worked,” he mumbles uncomfortably, finding his lips seemingly stuck to each other and making words difficult. He fidgets in his spot, trying his best to avoid looking too disturbed. “You shouldn’t have to worry about that collar anymore.” 

There’s a beat, then 2B blinks once down at him, and slides away from his personal space, straightening back up two steps away. She moves slowly, languidly, like a tiger retreating back into tall grass once its curiosity is satisfied, as if 2B had sensed his discomfort and had stayed in position only to see what he’d do. 

She doesn’t apologize for almost crushing his windpipe, or for the bruises that will be on his skin tomorrow. 9S is glad for it. 

Instead, she sets a regal gaze upon him. She tells him, “In the future, I will be able to take this collar off and burn it down to dust. All the collars in this kingdom will be made into a pyre. You will make it so.” 

“But not yet,” she adds, and it sounds almost understanding, if it isn’t for the cold stark _fury_ in her eyes. “I will keep you alive until you are able to fulfill your duty.” 

If 2B feels anything from the moment just now, she hides it perfectly. There is no crack in her demeanor, no chink in metaphorical armor, and it leaves 9S wondering if he’s the only one imagining the odd tension in the past few minutes. 

9S looks in her direction but can’t bring himself to raise his gaze to her face. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he says anyway, and hopes she takes it as the dismissal that it is. He isn’t anywhere near ready or willing to analyze those awkward, tense moments permeating throughout his interactions with 2B. 

To his relief, 2B merely dips her head in a nod––it’d be generous to call it even a shallow bow––and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> author knows nothing about hacking. took one comp sci elective in fifth term and almost quit college altogether


	5. Dogfight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 16 Jan 2021 patch notes: based on reception to previous chapter, the slow burn tag has been added. thank you for your reviews!
> 
> Also tried to make up a human flesh-and bone version of the explanation behind the all-heels uniform dress code of yorha units in the game. Sounds like bogus even to me though :p

“What are you doing?” 

9S looks up, hunched over once again at his desk. An impressive collection of document holos are splayed out messily in front of him. 2B’s pale gaze meets his, and for once there is only a rare display of open curiosity. 

He flicks a hand, sending a couple of the files aside in order to show her what he’s currently working on, figuring that now is a good opportunity to get her opinion on it. “What do you think?” 

“It’s… a uniform,” she says out loud once she’s gotten a good look at the patterns. 

“For you,” 9S explains. He risks a playful smile. “After all, a King’s personal guard should look the part.” 

2B inspects the diagrams a little more, her eyes roving languidly over the designs and saying nothing. A few more seconds of silence, and 9S starts to get nervous. 

“Uh, I guess I should’ve asked first,” he mumbles. “It’s just that your current uniform is pretty much a hand-me-down and it doesn’t fit exactly right, and I wanted to—”

“Make that hemline shorter,” 2B says. 

“Pardon?” 

2B nods towards the pattern designs, raising an eyebrow at him. “I am giving you my specifications. You asked for it, did you not?” 

9S blinks, feeling his brain pause and reboot. “Oh. Oh!” He jumps to attention, fingers flying to input alterations. “Of course,” he smiles brightly, happy that 2B feels safe enough to initiate conversation, even if it is about her uniform––especially after the disaster of last night. 

This morning his voice had still been a little crackly, though fortunately it had recovered by the time he had to meet with his court. The bruises on his neck had indeed darkened to frightening hues, especially when they stand out so obviously against the pallor of his skin. For once, he counts himself lucky that his high collars hide everything away from view. 

2B had only taken a brief glance at his injuries—the dark bruises on his neck that fit her fingers to the precise measurement—before she’d wordlessly reached over and adjusted his neckline, making sure that all of it was covered. Either 2B feels some semblance of regret for the mark she’s left on him (unlikely), or she understands the need to hide all traces of weakness from prying eyes in the castle (more likely).

Oblivious to his thoughts, 2B continues on, listing her demands and preferences while 9S jots them down. 

“Too much fabric around the legs. Make it tighter fitting.” 

“The collar of that cape is too high. Do you expect me to have any peripheral vision in it?” 

“Not enough reinforcement in the torso. Add another layer.” 

9S blinks at that. “It’s going to be heavy,” he warns. 

“Not a concern,” she dismisses, and then, “The sleeves are too long.” 

9S sighs. “Do you want to do it yourself?” 

2B nods, so he passes the monitor off to her to input the numbers in herself. Idly, 9S wonders where she’s getting these specifications from. Is it reminiscent of what she wore back in Yorha? Are these measurements just something she knows? He’d been planning to ask her to take her measurements for the fitting, but 2B already seems to know, typing them into the blanks without hesitation. It certainly makes his job much easier. 

After a few minutes, 2B slides it back to him for review. There’s a pause when 9S sees the measurements she’s put down for the boots. 

“You want… heels?” 

A corner of 2B’s mouth twists, as if she’s hesitant to admit the answer. “...You can call it a genetic disposition. Many people from Yorha, myself included, have bone structures that develop very slightly faster than the rest of our bodies. Commonly, the tibia and fibula grow a fractional percentage faster than our calf muscles. Many find it more comfortable to walk in heeled shoes than going flat-footed.” 

9S takes in this new information in part fascination and part rising concern. That’s the most he has ever heard her speak so far, he thinks absently. He glances down pointedly, at the standard-issue boots that all the soldiers in his castle wear. “Doesn’t that mean you’re in discomfort right now?” 

The silence he gets in response says all he needs to know. 9S hisses through his teeth, just a little. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” He asks in agitation, even though he’s already putting in an order of several pairs of heeled footwear. 

“It never came up,” replies 2B cooly. “There are ways to deal with it.” 

So that’s why 9S sees her occasionally standing on the balls of her feet. It isn’t really that overt, and she never does it when she’s standing guard in public or in court. But in the privacy of his rooms, 9S would sometimes catch her walking or standing on her toes. He’d always thought it was an exercise of some sort. 

“It’ll be ready in time for your Knighting,” he tells her, sending off the orders with a flick of his fingers. 

“The ceremony.” 

Not a question, as it is usually, but 9S nods anyway. “I should tell you what to expect,” he says a bit contemplatively. 

The look 2B favors him is so dry he wilts a little beneath it. “That would be wise.” 

9S chuckles weakly, conceding his point. “Okay, so here’s how it’s going to work…”

* * *

The day of the ceremony is rampant with chaos. Last minute decor is being arranged, everything polished and shined until every surface practically lights up with its own reflection, the kitchen staff bustling with activity to prepare for the post-ceremony banquet. His retainers are checking in every few seconds to review the script, look over this part of the ceremony, revise this line of the speech. 

High officials have been arriving in their carriages, one by one, since the early morning. At the gates, public witnesses vy for an entry inside. Palace security has never been so simultaneously strict and lax before. 

Despite the relatively short notice, it seems that nearly everyone from main channel newscasts to small-time gossip reporters have gathered to document the event. A camera crew has been set up to live broadcast the entire ceremony. It will stream on every digital herald board in every district. 

9S is as deliberate as he can be in making it as public as possible. Despite how sneaky everyone thinks they are, he hears everything that’s being spread around his kingdom. The further the rumors get out, the more outlandish the tales become. 

By publicizing the knighting to this degree, 9S hopes to halt the progress of this exaggeration, confirm the truths, and make the facts pretty much undeniable. It will be hard to deny 2B’s new position when the actual event is both signed on paper and digitally recorded across the entire kingdom. 

As with any of his actions nowadays, there are a few grumbles. Scratch that—murmurs of dissent echo throughout his entire palace. The maids whisper as they polish the windows, the footmen murmur amongst themselves, and the gardeners gossip with the stable staff. His planners for the ceremony keep giving him wide-eyed, incredulous looks throughout every meeting. His entire court is squirming from silent indignation. 

Indeed, 9S has considered the possibility that knighting someone with a slave status is a bit radical even for the common classes, who have otherwise been squarely on his side throughout all the changes he’s made in his reign so far. But then again, maybe this is exactly the kind of show they all needed. A demonstration that tells them this is the kind of change to expect in the near future. 

When it is time for the ceremony to begin, 9S enters the throne room and there is a great hush across all the people gathered to witness the event. 

The garb he wears is one of the most embellished, a kingly attire used only for formal ceremonies such as these, and practically a work of art in itself. It is composed of layers upon layers of fabrics, more material than he’d ever believe was possible to fit into a single costume if he isn’t the one wearing it. Each layer was meticulously detailed with the finest embroidery, lace, pearl inset, silkscreen design, and marbled dye. Impractical for wearing more than a few hours, nigh impossible to move in a pace more than a leisurely stroll. 

His mantle dragged heavily behind him like an active force as he stepped into position at the center of the raised ledge. Elaborately carved pillars stand grandly on either side of him, and lined up beside them are his royal knights, each suited up in their gilt armor and ceremonial capes. 

He looks out at the crowds who have come in attendance, previous idle rumor milling now replaced by attention as soon as his appearance was announced. He takes in their general air of silent scandal, their blankly polite outward expressions, and smiles secretly to himself. 

His entrance is nothing compared to the moment when 2B finally walks through those doors. The reaction is immediate. Tension rises until it is nearly palpable. Everyone seems to gasp in shock at the same time that they hold their breath. 

Even 9S is a little wide-eyed at the sight of her. 

It is possible that even in the soldier’s standard uniform, 2B has kept hidden some part of herself; the thing that had caught 9S’ attention at that first fateful glance but seemed to pass under the notice of everyone else. The fact that the clothes had been ill-fitting and unshapely, perhaps, or the discomfort of the flat-soled footwear had some influence on how she carried herself, however small it was. 

Maybe people had seen her donated garb, and the thing she still wore around her neck—coupled with all the prejudices about her origin—and the only thought that crossed their minds had been: _that’s all she is. A piece of charity._ Something that is temporary, a placeholder, a mere makeshift figure that will be replaced in due time. As impressive as the massive sword she carries on her back is, people had still dismissed her. 

But now, adorned as a Kingsguard, as the Highest Royal Knight, closest aide to His Shining Star, it all shows through. 9S has only equipped her with the tools she should have had in the beginning, only given her the basics of suitable clothing and armor. It is 2B who does the rest of creating the image. And she does it with almost masterful skill—

The grace of her long stride. The strength in her body. The tilt of her head, the line of her spine, and the steady, languid pace of her movements. The way she holds herself with all the unaffected pride of an apex predator, one who knows without a doubt that she sits at the very top of the food chain. Oh yes, now 2B has found her footing. 

She looks toward 9S as she walks down the long hall, as he has instructed her, because for all of her stoicism and empty expression, there will still be some part of that inner defensiveness that will show through as she passes by the crowds of people looking at her with revulsion or bare tolerance. 

And he knows this, has taken it into his calculations. He told her to look at him when she enters because he knows she cannot do so without something of her allegiance showing in her body language. 

He is a familiar face, at least a known ally, and the difference is shown when 2B’s posture shifts subtly from something less wary, less threat-as-defense, and into something more open, indomitable, dangerous-as-existence. 

9S knows his people, knows what manner of audience would be present at the ceremony to witness it in person. They are politicians, lords and ladies, high nobility who have navigated the world of subtle tells in body and facial expression and obscure social cues their entire lives. These are the kind of crowds who probably won’t understand why 9S is aligning himself with someone of such lowly status, but will recognize the loyalty that he shares with this woman. 

Now they’ll know what kind of strength he has backing his side of the throne. And who exactly 2B has on her side. In a way, it is like a mutual, two-part claim. 

(He finds he rather likes the thought of that.) 

When 2B reaches him, she takes a knee, and he begins the prepared speech that is customary of all such knighting ceremonies, though perhaps more lengthy and flowery because of the position 2B was to be inaugurated into. It is all mostly for show, for the symbolic gesture that will mean something more to the general masses. 

His voice echoes across the room, projected with no small amount of practice, and he says the prompts, but inwardly he hears that spoken promise they made on that fateful day when he first brought 2B into his palace. And 2B repeats back the pledges she has memorized the evening before, but her words have notes of those oaths they swore to each other in the privacy of the rooms they now share together, deep into the night and away from any prying ears. 

2B draws the sword at her waist—not the one she usually wears upon her back, but a pretty, decorative piece used in ceremonies such as this—and offers it up handle-first. 9S takes the blade, finding the physical steel heavier than the hardlight blades he was used to, and taps the flat edge from shoulder to shoulder. 

When she rises and he declares her new position, the ceremony concludes with a lackluster smattering of applause and a hundred flashes of cameras from the press crew on the sidelines. 

9S smiles. He’d gone through such extreme lengths to make this ceremony publicized, to make 2B publicized, to cement her place at his side, for certain. But there is also a secondary motive, one that he hasn’t even disclosed to 2B. 

A slave at the king’s side; not as a slave, however, but as the King’s closest aide—the First Guard, the Highest Royal Knight. Other than the Royal Family, composed solely of those with immediate blood relations, no other position stands closer to the King than this. 

The only reason why the voices of dissent had been heard so clearly in reaction to this event is because the ones who did agree are the ones who have been systematically silenced throughout the decades, the ones who stand so far below the hierarchy that even if they do open their mouths to speak, their words will not reach anyone. 

He hopes they will look up to the holoscreens in the town square or the banners running down the sides of buildings or even just hear the public outcry and see 2B being knighted into the highest position any non-royal can obtain. He hopes they will know what it means. 

She is hope.

* * *

The post-ceremony banquet is almost too awkward for even 9S to bear. 

He has people dressed in all the many-layered finery in the kingdom brushing up against him and offering words of congratulations that only just barely hide the abject disapproval in their voices. 

High-born ladies stare at him through the delicate lace veils of their headpieces with scandalized eyes and sweetly tell him how glad they are that he has found a suitable warrior to stand by his side. His viceroys seem to be more in a state of disbelief – or denial – and they happily titter on about their king’s “theatrics” with just an edge of mockery that sets 9S’s teeth to grinding even as he smiles sweetly back at them. 

“This is highly unconventional, your Majesty, I do hope you are aware,” is the closest thing someone has said to his face to state their opinion of the whole thing, and even then, the lord forces a laugh afterwards as if he’d just made a joke. 

9S has to constantly check his glass for slipped poisons. He’s sure no one will be bold enough to openly make an attempt on his life, but his hand never strays far from the hard light weapon in its hidden holster on his waist, ready to whip it out at a moment’s notice. 

He can’t help the little breath of relief he lets out when he catches sight of 2B approaching, having just swapped the ceremonial blade out for her usual personal weapon. The sight of the giant blade hovering in its magnetic sheathe makes everyone around her give her a wide berth, if her status isn’t keeping them far away from her already. It would’ve been funny if he isn’t so tense from spending the last few minutes fielding inquiries and vaguely threatening yet neutral-sounding comments about his decisions as a king. 

“Oh, 2B, star of the show! There you are!” 9S calls, beaming brightly as if he isn’t tracking movement behind him at the moment. At this point, he isn’t so certain that his guards won’t want to take a stab at him for not choosing his knight from one of their numbers, what with the amount of polite vitriol he’s been sensing all week from the captain. 

“Your Majesty,” she greets him elegantly, and he almost lets his surprise show on his face. 2B has never called him that before. 

At the subtle raised eyebrow he receives when he stares dumbly for a second too long, the realization dawns on him. 

Ah. Right, yes. 9S has almost forgotten about the crowd of bloodthirsty nobles who are biting at the bit to devour him whole at the slightest hint of weakness or disloyalty in his closest circle. Which, at the moment, only consists of 2B.

He slides seamlessly back into the rhythm of greeting, smiling, dodging slander disguised as finely crafted blessings, and returning back with his own empty niceties, only this time with 2B standing rigidly by his side. She’s barely tolerating this vapid display, he can tell. Her lips are pressed together and she makes no move to engage in conversation, though she doesn’t really have to, with how the nobility seem to be avoiding talking to her just as much as she is. 

It’s fine with 9S. He won’t expect her to go to such lengths just to maintain a nonessential image. Having her nearby is already enough to make him relax more, even if he can practically taste her agitation steadily climb the charts as the evening drags on. 

Finally when there’s a lull in the stream of people coming up to talk to him, 9S jumps on the opportunity to pull away slightly until he and 2B found a slightly more quiet corner of the hall where they won’t be disturbed for at least a few minutes. 

He glances at his new knight, standing tensely next to him. “How are you doing? I know chit chat can get rough.” 

“We are never doing this again,” she murmurs softly to him, and he mentally winces at the cold murder simmering beneath her voice. 

“I’ll try to avoid it next time,” he sends an apologetic look at her. They both know that isn’t happening. Court life is what 9S lives and breathes as king. The only difference between this time and the next is that 2B won’t be the center focus of the event. “I think we’ve pandered to the masses enough. You can go up ahead if you want, I just need to wrap up a few things here.” 

There’s a sort of weighted, meaningful pause as 2B sets a gaze of silent judgement upon him. 

If he blushes, 2B makes no comment about it and he’d like it to stay that way. He averts his eyes, like he’s trying to escape that intense mental examination. “It’s obvious you don’t want to stay here more than you have to. I’ll be fine, it’s not like there will be an assassination attempt in the five minutes it’ll take for me to end the banquet.” 

“In my experience so far, the possibility of that happening is rather high.” 

9S waves it off. “That was the one time.” 

2B arches an eyebrow at him. “Thirty-four in one day.” 

“I can have bad days.” The reminder makes him once again take a moment to appreciate the truly impressive surge in attempts on his life ever since he announced 2B’s knighting. If he hadn’t had 2B, or if she had not been such a terrifyingly competent bodyguard, his life would have been forfeit the very next day. 

It proves just how much 2B despised the banquet that with only a few more token protests, she does something like a shrug and steps away from him to leave. “It is not only your head. Many lives depend on your survival,” she warns him, before finally departing with an ominous, “I will be watching.” 

She’s barely gotten out of his sight before something happens. For once, however, it isn’t about him. 

The sharp slap of something leather hitting the polished marble floor doesn’t exactly catch his attention, but the sudden hush that falls upon the crowd around him does. 

When he turns around the first thing he sees is 2B, and the man standing before her. There’s a glove thrown on the floor between them, and it doesn’t take a lot to infer what is happening. 

“I challenge you to a duel of honor,” the knight spits out in 2B’s face. The nobles gathered around them in a loose circle titter with palpable excitement. They’re like sharks that have caught the scent of blood in the waters. 

9S cringes internally. This seems like it can get messy. They call it a duel of honor, which can only happen between two parties of equal standing. Which, technically, is correct, now that 2B has been knighted. But in reality, if the knight who’d issued the challenge loses the match, he will likely only be demoted, or at worst, unknighted and expelled from the palace. 

If 2B loses, she’ll be stripped of her new ranks and there is nothing 9S can do if his entire court votes to kill off a no-name slave. 

He should have known something like this would happen, to be honest. 

2B’s eyes shift steadily down to aim the deepest look of disdain at the glove on the ground. Not even bothering to hide the scorn in her voice, she says, “I accept.”


End file.
